Gospel Story Finder

When I was 13, my mother decided to return to her church. I went with her every Sunday for several months and soon joined the church’s youth group. I loved many things about this church, but I always felt like there was something missing. I continued to go until one day at a youth activity the other youth found out I was not a member of the church. The teenagers in the group began shunning me, and I eventually stopped going to church altogether.

Later, in high school, I took a comparative religions course. I learned a lot about many religions and realized there are a lot of good people with the best of intentions. But no religion ever seemed quite right.

I had convinced myself that no church was right and decided to live by my conscience, read the Bible (by this time I had bought my own), and do my best to live in accordance with the teachings of Jesus Christ. After all, no one in my family went to church, and they were all honest, good people.

In May of 2000, after seeing a movie about the life of Jesus Christ, I was so deeply touched that I earnestly prayed to God. I knew if I was patient, while continuing to do my best to follow Christ, I would receive answers to my prayers. I faced many tests in the months that followed. Through these tests, I became better at receiving the Spirit’s promptings.

Later that year I felt I should go to the visitors’ center at the Washington D.C. Temple to see the Christmas lights. I had been to the visitors’ center to see the lights before but had never inquired about the Church or its beliefs.

As I strolled through the visitors’ center, looking at the many displays, I thought of my cousin and another friend who were planning to serve missions for this church. I had studied about many religions but never this one. I was a little curious.

In my head I asked, expecting no answer, “Why in the world would those two men, or anyone for that matter, give up two years to serve missions—and at their own expense?” Much to my surprise, I received a humbling response. The soft whispers of the Spirit pierced my heart as my eyes fell upon a replica of gold plates. I was drawn to them. As I looked at them, I felt a powerful feeling of love, safety, and comfort, and in my mind I heard the words, “These are important. Learn about them.”

Immediately, I found a missionary and asked her about the plates. She told me about Joseph Smith translating the Book of Mormon. She also suggested I meet with the missionaries, but I declined.

The next day I went to the library to read all I could about the plates and the Church. I bought a copy of the Book of Mormon from a used-book store and began reading. I also read about the Church, but I wanted to learn more, so I decided to attend a church meeting.

I knew if I studied and prayed, God would confirm to me that this is the right church. So that’s what I did. I watched and waited patiently. And sure enough, my prayers were answered. On March 25, 2001, I was baptized a member of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints.

This is the Church of Jesus Christ. There are many good churches with many good people, but The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints is the church of our Lord and Savior, and it is the church with which our Heavenly Father is well pleased (see D&C 1:30). Our Heavenly Father loves us, has a plan for us, and will guide us back to Him if we earnestly seek Him.

In that same revelation the Lord said concerning Oliver Cowdery some interesting and remarkable things:
“In me he shall have glory, and not of himself, whether in weakness or in strength, whether in bonds or free;
“And at all times, and in all places, he shall open his mouth and declare my gospel as with the voice of a trump, both day and night. And I will give unto him strength such as is not known among men.” (D&C 24:11–12.)
Oliver, with Joseph Smith, received the Aaronic Priesthood under the hands of John the Baptist, and subsequently the Melchizedek Priesthood under the hands of Peter, James, and John. He magnified that priesthood as a witness to the Book of Mormon, as a Counselor to the Prophet, as one to select the Twelve Apostles and to instruct them, as a missionary in moving the Church across the frontiers of the western territories, and as a teacher and speaker whose voice rang with great and persuasive power.
But he turned and began to look through the wrong end of the lens. He found fault. He complained. His calling shrank, he diminished his priesthood, he distanced himself from those in authority in the Church.
Gone was the voice of persuasion, gone was the power of the priesthood of God which he once held and magnified. For eleven years, he walked almost alone, without friends. He walked in poverty and in sickness.
Then in the fall of 1848, he and his family made their way to Council Bluffs and found themselves again among many of the Saints who at that time were moving to the West. At a conference held in Kanesville on the 24th of October, 1848, he stood and said:
“Friends and Brethren:
“My name is Cowdery—Oliver Cowdery. In the history of the Church I stood … in her councils. Not because I was better than other men was I called … to fill the purposes of God. He called me to a high and holy calling. I wrote with my own pen the entire Book of Mormon (save a few pages) as it fell from the lips of the Prophet Joseph Smith, and he translated it by the power and gift of God, by means of the Urim and Thummim, or as it is called by that book, ‘Holy Interpreter.’
“I beheld with my eyes and handled with my hands, the gold plates from which it was translated. … That book is true, Sidney Rigdon did not write it; Mr. Spaulding did not write it; I wrote it myself as it fell from the lips of the Prophet. …
“I was present with Joseph when an Holy Angel from Heaven came down and conferred upon us … the Aaronic Priesthood, and said to us, at the same time, that it should remain on earth while the earth stands. I was also present with Joseph when the Higher or Melchizedek Priesthood was conferred by the Holy Angels from on high. …
“Brethren, for a number of years, I have been separated from you. I now desire to come back. I wish to come humble and be one in your midst. I seek no station. I only wish to be identified with you. I am out of the Church, but I wish to become a member. I wish to come in at the door: I know the door, I have not come here to seek precedence. I come humbly and throw myself upon the decision of the body, knowing as I do, that its decisions are right.” (In Stanley R. Gunn, Oliver Cowdery: Second Elder and Scribe, Salt Lake City: Bookcraft, 1962, pp. 203–4.)
He was accepted. He was baptized again. He longed to gather with the Saints in the valleys of the mountains, but he died March 3, 1850, without ever realizing that dream.
His is one of the most touching, pathetic stories in the history of this great work. So long as he magnified his calling, he was magnified. When he diminished that calling, he shrank to oblivion and poverty. He came back, but he never regained his previous stature. He never regained the incomparable promise given him by the Lord that, conditioned upon his faithfulness, he should have glory and be given “strength such as is not known among men.” (D&C 24:12.)

“The Lord could not have put it more clearly when he said, ‘Why call ye me, Lord, Lord, and do not the things which I say?’” (Luke 6:46).
Brother Murray’s talk suddenly pushed through my thoughts of the Civil War and tomorrow’s geometry test.
“For decades He has been telling us to prepare our families for self-sufficiency by putting aside a year’s supply of necessities. We have been counseled to produce as much of our own food as possible. But how many of us are really prepared for any emergency the future might bring?”
Thinking of my frequent errands to the supermarket for mom, I looked along the bench. Mom and dad’s faces were serious. Fourteen-year-old Greg looked deep in thought. Even 11-year-old Corey and Carrie were listening. We all probably had the same thoughts. With six of us in the family, it seemed that food started disappearing as soon as a grocery bag entered the house. Live off our storage for a year? We didn’t even have a month’s supply of most things!
But what could I do—16-year-old Joyce Brown? No part-time job was allowed because my parents didn’t want me distracted from schoolwork and Church activities. My allowance of $5 a week covered lunches, school supplies, and assorted small miscellaneous expenses. And, with the junior prom a month away, I’d been saving all my baby-sitting money for a new dress. I couldn’t think of a single contribution I could make to a storage program for the Brown family.
“Church leaders haven’t prescribed a storage system that fits everyone,” Brother Murray went on. “Each of you, each family using free agency has to prepare in its own way. The important thing is to start! Don’t put it off any longer. If you wait until you can buy a year’s supply all at once, you may still be waiting when the chance for preparation has slipped away.”
Brother Murray’s words bounced around in my head. “The important thing is to start!” “Prepare in your own way.” “Start!”
Opening my hymnbook for the closing song, I vowed that this message would not be hidden away in my mind to be dealt with on a distant, vague someday.
At dinner I mentioned Brother Murray’s talk.
“It was a good reminder,” dad said. “We should start putting something aside for the future.”
“When?” I asked.
“Soon,” he said and finished spooning gravy onto his mashed potatoes. “I think Mr. Blanchard is going to come through with that raise within a couple of months. Then we’ll really have some funds to work with. Please pass the salt, Greg.”
“Brother Murray said we shouldn’t wait until we could start in a big way. We should just make sure we start.”
Mom passed the green beans to me. “It takes extra money to buy extra food, Joyce. Of course, being prepared is important, but—”
She didn’t finish because Corey spilled his water while reaching for a slice of bread.
I just couldn’t push family preparedness from my mind. “The important thing is to start! Start!” But how?
Tuesday after school, mom asked me to go to the store for her. “We’re having spaghetti tonight. I need a can of tomato sauce.”
It’s amazing, but the twins can hear the car keys jingle all the way upstairs in their bedrooms.
“Where are you going, Joyce?” Corey asked, bursting into the kitchen.
Carrie was right behind him. “We want to go,” she said when I disclosed my destination.
“I’m starving,” Corey moaned. “Can I buy a fruit pie to tide me over till supper?”
“Me, too?”
Mom smiled. “It’s quite a while till soup’s on. Go ahead. You can have something, too, Joyce.” When we got home, I handed the bag to mom.
“Joyce, I only need one can of tomato sauce.
You’ve got three in here!”
I smiled at the twins.
“It’s for storage,” Carrie explained.
“Joyce convinced us to give up fruit pies for extra tomato sauce.” Corey was looking in the refrigerator. “We’ll have a jam sandwich instead.”
With a puzzled look, mom put the extra cans on the shelf.
Friday was payday. That meant allowances for everyone. As dad handed me my $5 bill, mom said, “You just might have enough for your prom dress now.”
Dad grinned. “My princess is growing up.”
“Oh, dad!” I smiled.
That evening I spent some time going over my clothes. When I finally pulled out my best go-to-school-dances dress, it didn’t look as bad as I’d thought. In fact, Saturday, when Mom took me shopping for a prom dress, I just couldn’t find anything to top the dress that was already hanging in my closet.
After a stop at the market, we went home.
Dad was in the kitchen. “All right,” he smiled. “Let’s see that dreamy prom dress you picked out.”
I laughed because dreamy is dad’s idea of teenage language. He uses it when he wants to show he’s not old-fashioned. I carefully tipped my grocery sack over and let the contents slide onto the table: 3 large bags of pinto beans, 2 bags of rice, and a box of powdered milk!
Dad just stared for a few seconds. “A very interesting prom dress,” he finally said.
“I decided I’d rather add to our storage instead of buying a new dress,” I explained. “My old one is dreamy enough!”
Dad glanced at mom, but she just gave him her don’t-ask-me shrug. She said, “Find a place for all that stuff.”
I finally fit my storage contribution into the bottom of a corner cupboard. At least it would be undisturbed, unless someone wanted to risk a sprained back getting it out again.
Thursday, after I had maneuvered an extra jar of peanut butter into the storage corner, I unkinked my back, had a brilliant idea, and went to find Greg. He was practicing foul shots on our old basketball hoop in front of the garage.
“Greg, I have this idea. Will you help me?”
He bounced the ball a couple of times. “Sorry, Joyce, I’m busy.”
“Not now, I mean tomorrow afternoon.”
“I have a million things to do,” he said, making a basket.
“Nice shot,” I beamed, deciding not to beg. “I can understand your obligations. Just tell me where I can find the hammer and nails.”
“Hammer?”
“And some nails,” I said with a smile.
“You’re going to hammer?” He looked very surprised when I nodded. “Just what are you making?”
“That’s what I was going to get your help with,” I said, starting toward the house. “I know you’ve been doing some carpentry in Careers Ed. I was going to put some of that skill to work.”
“Since you put it that way, I’ll do it, Joyce,” Greg said, following me. “I can make time. I mean, if you really need a carpenter, how can I turn you down?”
After dinner I found dad reading the paper in his favorite chair.
“Dad?”
“Hmmmmm?”
“Greg and I are going to use some of that lumber stacked behind the garage. Okay?”
He didn’t look up. “Sure, honey,” he said without even asking why.
I have to admit, Greg’s carpentry skills surprised me. He had shelves built in half of my closet before dad got home from work on Friday. I was so proud of Greg’s work that I dragged both mom and dad in to show off our storage shelves. The beans, rice, dried milk, peanut butter, and two cans of tomato sauce looked a little lonely, but it would get more crowded as time went on. At least I wouldn’t have to strain and stretch to get things under the kitchen cupboard.
Mom and dad smiled at each other.
“What a perfect arrangement,” dad teased. “If Joyce is going to buy food instead of clothes, it’s only logical to reserve half of her closet for food.”
The next week mom bought a few extra sale items each time she went to the store. Greg gave up a record album and a new sweatband so he could add three cans of honey to the shelves. Even the twins added a jar of jam apiece by giving up ice cream cones.
After a few more weeks, the little bit that appeared on our storage shelves started to really look like something. It was still a little something, but something just the same.
By then, warm spring days were here, and I knew there was one more thing that Joyce Brown could do to help with the family preparedness. One Monday right after school, I got the trusty shovel from the garage and began turning over the far corner of our backyard. Years ago that area was set aside as a garden spot, but something always came up to prevent us from using it.
Greg came out to play basketball, stopped, then sauntered down to me.
“Looking for gold?” he grinned.
“Better than gold,” I puffed. “I’m going to plant a garden.”
“A garden? you’ve got to be kidding!”
“Nope.”
“What do you know about gardening, Farmer John, or should I say Farmer Joyce?” He was smiling, but at least he didn’t laugh.
“Not much,” I admitted, “but I can read, and the library is full of books about raising vegetables.”
He took the shovel from me. “We just might make it … if we team up! Farmer Joyce and Gardener Greg!”
We had a pretty good-sized section turned over when dad drove in. He sat in the car watching us for a long time. Finally he walked over.
“Don’t tell me,” he sighed. “A garden, right?”
We both grinned and nodded.
“Just what the storage program needs!” Greg panted and jumped on the shovel again.
Dad went in while we worked awhile longer.
After supper, dad announced, “Special lesson for family home evening, or maybe I should say, emergency meeting!”
Emergency meeting? It was all very mysterious, so we got settled in the living room very quickly.
“First of all,” dad started, “your mother and I appreciate the special effort all of you have been giving to a storage program. Joyce and the twins showed real initiative in getting it started.”
The twins beamed at each other.
“Then Greg used his talents to help the project along. Now, if you kids could use some more partners, your mother and I would like to join in.”
Everyone agreed unanimously.
“It looks like the next step is a garden. Joyce and Greg have already started turning the ground in the corner of the yard. I say, let’s all help them and make this an organized Brown family project! Now, I really don’t know too much about gardening—”
Corey interrupted, “Carrie and I can stop by the library after school tomorrow. I’m sure they have tons of books on gardens.”
“That’s a good idea,” mom said. “I’ll find that book on food preservation that Aunt Norma gave us a few years ago so we’ll know what to do when all those lovely vegetables start rolling in.”
For the next few minutes everyone juggled for a time to share their ideas about this family food project. Then dad looked at mom, and she smiled some encouragement.
“You all know how we enjoy a pretty nice family vacation each summer,” he said. “We’ve made some special memories while traveling around visiting new places.”
We all nodded.
“Well … your mother and I thought … that maybe the family would like to think about taking some of the vacation money we’ve saved to really get the Brown family preparedness program heading in the right direction.” Dad looked at us uncomfortably. “You know, plan what we’ll need for a year’s supply, keep track of inventory, build a real storage area—things like that.”
All of us just looked at dad.
“We could take one-day-trips and really explore the area close to home.”
The room was quiet.
Finally I said, “We’re quiet not because we don’t want to give up our vacation but because we think it’s a great idea!”
Greg grinned. “In fact, it’s weird, because Joyce and I talked about the same plan while we were working outside, and then we talked to the twins before dinner.”
“We were worried about what you two would say,” Corey added with a smile.
“We know how much you enjoy those vacations,” Carrie said.
Mom and dad looked at each other and then at the four of us. I think there were tears in their eyes.
Dad smiled. “Even with that money, we will still be working at this preparation business slowly, a little at a time. We won’t be able to get ready all at once, but the important thing is to start!”

Once upon a time, a father was about to leave for an evening bishopric meeting. His four-year-old daughter stepped in front of him, wearing pajamas and holding a copy of Book of Mormon Stories.
“Why do you have to go to a meeting?” she asked.
“Because I am a counselor in the bishopric,” he answered.
“But you are my dad!” her daughter protested.
He knelt in front of her. “Sweetheart,” he said, “I know you want me to read to you and help you go to sleep, but tonight I need to help the bishop.”
His daughter replied, “Doesn’t the bishop have a dad to help him go to sleep?”
We are eternally grateful for the countless members who serve diligently in the Church of Jesus Christ every day. Your sacrifice is truly sacred.
But as this girl seemed to understand, there’s something equally sacred—something irreplaceable—about a parent nurturing a child. It reflects the pattern of heaven. Our Father in Heaven, our Divine Parent, surely rejoices when His children are taught and nurtured by their parents on earth.
Parents, thank you for everything you’re doing to raise your children. And children, thank you for everything you’re doing to raise your parents, because as every parent knows, we often learn as much from our children about faith, hope, and charity as they learn from us!

It was Christmas Day. Judith hummed as she walked to the church building. She and her siblings were going to their branch’s Christmas party.
Her sister, Esther, smiled. “Is that ‘Angels We Have Heard on High?’”
“Yes! It’s my favorite. I hope we sing it today.” Judith grinned.
“I love that song!” Désiré, her brother, added. He loudly sang, “Gl-o-o-o-ria!”
They all laughed. Judith couldn’t wait to celebrate with their branch. Not many people in Mali celebrated Christmas. In this part of Africa, most people didn’t know much about Jesus. To them, Christmas was just an ordinary day.
The streets were full of people. Vendors sold light green melons. People young and old carried jugs of water on their heads. A young boy led a donkey pulling a cart. Judith looked up at the tall, narrow tower of a mosque. It was a beautiful building where many of their Muslim neighbors worshipped.
Judith, Esther, and Désiré used to go to Papa’s church. But last summer, they joined The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints. Now the three of them walked to church together every week. Judith loved learning about Jesus in Primary.
At last they got to the party. Most of the families in the branch were already there. A projector was showing Christmas videos on the chapel wall. Judith watched Joseph lead Mary through Bethlehem on a donkey. The busy, dusty streets reminded her of Mali!
After the video ended, a taxi pulled up. Sister Valerie, the Relief Society president, got out.
“I’ve brought the food!” she called.
Everyone helped bring dishes up to the balcony. It was a feast! Potato salad, carrots, green beans, bright yellow rice, fried chicken … it was all delicious!
“Thank you so much, Sister Valerie!” Judith said.
Then the youngest children each got a ball, doll, or toy car. There weren’t enough gifts for Judith to get one, but she didn’t mind. She loved seeing the little kids smile.
The party ended with singing. Judith smiled when they sang “Angels We Have Heard on High.”
The whole branch sang together. It was so beautiful. Jesus really was born all those years ago! Judith was so grateful that she, Désiré, and Esther knew about Him. And she was so happy to celebrate His birth.

That Sunday, summer did not keep her promises. Instead of sunshine, menacing clouds promised rain for the day of our son’s baptism.
“It sure doesn’t feel like August,” murmured David as he climbed into the car to go to the lake. But when all the members were gathered on the beach, we all forgot that the sun had backed out on our celebration. Smiling proudly, my husband, Jose, led David into the still water.
I watched as my husband said the baptismal prayer and gently lowered our son into the water. I too smiled as I watched David rise out of the water to a new life.
My little son paddled to the bank, where he acknowledged his friends’ congratulations and allowed us to fuss over him with towels. He seemed to be lost in thought. Then he lifted his eyes to meet mine, gave me a big smile, and said proudly, “Wow, I’m finally a member of the true church!”
Now, as I looked down into his beaming face, I feel the Lord has a very special task planned for my son. David often speaks of his future mission. But, for now, his being baptized into The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints has made us the happiest parents in the world.

A young man I know well was elected to be the student body president at a large university. The university sent him to a leadership seminar where student leaders from across the United States gathered in Chicago, Illinois, to be trained and educated. They participated in an initial game outdoors on the college campus so that they could become acquainted with each other. The students were presented with current issues facing today’s youth and were asked to take a position. In response to the issue presented, they were directed to run to several trees in the grassy area marked “strongly agree,” “partially agree,” “strongly disagree,” or “mildly disagree.”
Toward the end of this exercise, the leader asked, “Do you believe in premarital sex?” Without hesitation, this young man ran to the tree marked “strongly disagree.” To his amazement, he was the only one there! All the other student leaders were laughing and pointing at him and saying, “Oh, Jess, you are so funny. We all know you’re not really serious.” At that moment Jess said he knew exactly what he must do and so he loudly declared, “I’m not funny. I’m serious!” There was a stunned silence, and then the group dispersed, leaving Jess standing alone by the tree. He felt out of place and, yes, weird. But he wasn’t weird. He was right. And he was not alone. During the week, many of the student leaders came to him privately and said that they wished they had known years earlier what he knew. Jess later said, “It was easy because I knew that I represented not only the university but my family, the Church, and the Savior.”

Let me share with you a personal experience I had as a teenager while our family was attending church in Frankfurt, Germany.

One Sunday the missionaries brought a new family to our meetings whom I hadn’t seen before. It was a mother with two beautiful daughters. I thought that these missionaries were doing a very, very good job.

I particularly took notice of the one daughter with gorgeous dark hair and large brown eyes. Her name was Harriet, and I think I fell in love with her from the first moment I saw her. Unfortunately, this beautiful young woman didn’t seem to feel the same about me. She had many young men who wanted to make her acquaintance, and I began to wonder if she would ever see me as anything but a friend. But I didn’t let that deter me. I figured out ways to be where she was. When I passed the sacrament, I made sure I was in the right position so that I would be the one to pass the sacrament to her.

When we had special activities at church, I rode my bike to Harriet’s house and rang the doorbell. Harriet’s mother usually answered. In fact, she opened the kitchen window of their apartment on the fourth floor and asked what I wanted. I would ask if Harriet would like a ride to church on my bicycle. Harriet’s mother would say, “No, she will be coming later, but I will be happy to ride with you to church.” This wasn’t exactly what I had in mind, but how could I decline?

And so we rode to church. I must admit I had a very impressive road bike. Harriet’s mother sat on the top tube bar just in front of me, and I tried to be the most elegant bicycle driver over roads of rough cobblestone.

Time passed. While beautiful Harriet was seeing many other young men, it seemed that I could not make any headway with her.

Was I disappointed? Yes.

Was I defeated? Absolutely not!

Actually, looking back I recognize that it doesn’t hurt at all to be on good terms with the mother of the girl of your dreams.

Years later, after I had finished my training as a fighter pilot in the air force, I experienced a modern miracle in Harriet’s response to my continued courting. One day she said, “Dieter, you have matured much over these past years.”

I moved quickly after that, and within a few months I was married to the woman I had loved ever since I first saw her. The process hadn’t been easy—there were moments of suffering and despair—but finally my happiness was full, and it still is, even more so.

“Have a good time!” Julie’s mother called as she leaned on her cane and waved.
“I will!” Julie said, waving back.
Today was field day at school, which meant there would be races and awards. It was usually an exciting day, but Julie was distracted as she walked to school. She kept thinking about how much Mom had changed over the past year. Mom used to run and play and even taught Julie to stand on her head! But ever since getting sick, Mom couldn’t walk very well.
“It’s OK,” Mom usually said. “Watching you run and play makes me happy.”
Julie wanted to bring home an award ribbon for Mom so badly she could hardly stand it! There was only one problem—she was the smallest one in the class and didn’t usually win at sporty things.
Maybe if I pray, Heavenly Father will help me, Julie thought. As she prayed, a warm feeling filled her heart. She smiled. It felt like the Spirit was telling her that field day was going to be great.
At school the students were gathering into groups and teams.
“Hey, Julie! Come try this,” Sophia yelled from the long-jump line.
When it was her turn, Julie took a deep breath and ran as fast as she could. She pushed off the start line and felt the wind whip her hair as she sailed over the sand. She landed with a thump and remembered to fall forward.
“That’s the farthest I’ve ever jumped!” Julie said to Sophia when she saw her score. It wasn’t far enough to earn a ribbon, but Julie felt good inside, like she shouldn’t give up.
Soon another friend, Evie, was calling to them.
“Come try the 50-yard dash!”
Julie lined up next to lots of other kids. When the starter yelled, “Go!” Julie pumped her legs as fast as she could.
Wow, I’m running really fast! Julie thought. She came in fourth place—not quite fast enough to earn a ribbon. Julie felt a flicker of worry. But there was still time for one more event.
Julie and her friends decided to try the relay race. After Sophia ran around the track, Julie stretched out her hand for the baton.
I think we’re in first place! Julie thought as she took the baton and ran. But as she handed the baton to Evie, another runner pulled ahead.
The good feelings Julie had faded away. Still breathing hard, she walked to a nearby hill and plopped down on the grass. She wrapped her arms around her knees and listened to the cheers of students and teachers as the race ended.
Julie thought about her morning prayer. She thought about all of the times she had felt good during the day. She was glad the races had been fun. But she also felt sad that she hadn’t earned a ribbon.
Suddenly something surprising happened. Those good feelings started filling her heart again! It was like the Spirit was telling her that she should keep hoping for good things to happen. Julie smiled.
Then she felt a hand on her shoulder.
“Look what we got!” Evie squealed as she held up two ribbons. “One’s for you. Our team came in second in the relay!”
Julie rubbed the shiny satin between her fingers and looked at the gold letters gleaming in the sunlight. She said a silent prayer thanking Heavenly Father for helping her feel good throughout the day.
Then she jumped up. She couldn’t wait to tell Mom all about her feel-good field day!

When I was presiding over the New England Mission, I attended a zone conference; and as we entered the room where the young elders were waiting, I saw, sitting in the back row, a tall and elderly man.
“I was baptized a few days ago,” he said to me. “I’m 74 years old, and I found the gospel only now in my life.”
In a pleading voice he asked if he might attend the meeting. “I just want to be here to learn,” he said. “I’ll sit on the back row. I won’t interrupt.”
Then, almost in tears, he poured out his regret. “Why did I not find it until now? My life is over. My children are all raised and gone, and it is just too late for me to learn the gospel.”
What a joy it was to explain to him one of the great miracles that occurs over and over again is the transformation of those who join the Church. (Or I might say of those who rejoin the Church.) They are in the world and they are of the world, and then the missionaries find them. Though they are in the world thereafter, they are not of the world. Very quickly in their thinking and in their feelings and in their actions, it is as though they had been members of the Church all of their lives.

I received permission from my dear friend and emeritus General Authority Seventy, Elder Robert E. Wells, now 97 years old, to share his experience of more than 60 years ago:
While living in Paraguay in 1960 and employed as an international banker, Robert Wells, then 32 years old, and his wife, Meryl, were each a pilot in two different planes, flying home from Uruguay to Paraguay. Encountering thick clouds, Robert and Meryl lost visual and radio contact with each other. Robert quickly landed, where he learned his wife’s plane had crashed. Neither his wife nor the two friends flying with her had survived. His children, at home in Asunción, were ages seven, five, and two.
Elder Wells spoke of his grief:
“Words will forever be inadequate in expressing the pain that swelled within me, consuming my emotions and numbing my senses. Profound tears of sorrow simply wouldn’t stop flowing. To make matters worse, as my mind was attempting to deal with the devastating realization of my wife’s passing, I found myself experiencing tremendous guilt for feeling I was responsible for the crash.”
Robert blamed himself for not having had the plane inspected more thoroughly and for not giving his wife better instrument flying instructions. He felt he was guilty of neglect.
Robert said:
“My mind went into a dark daze. … I simply existed—[for the sake of the children,] nothing more.”
“I … lost my desire to continue on.”
In time, Robert was blessed with a deeply spiritual experience. He recounted:
“One evening, about one year later, while on my knees in prayer, a miracle occurred. While praying and pleading to my Heavenly Father, I felt as though the Savior came to my side and I heard an audible voice speaking these words to my soul and to my ears: ‘Robert, my atoning sacrifice paid for your sins and your mistakes. Your wife forgives you. Your friends forgive you. I will lift your burden. …’
“From that moment, the burden of guilt [and despair] was amazingly lifted from me. I had been rescued! I immediately understood the encompassing power of the Savior’s Atonement and … that it applied directly to me. … I … experienced light and joy like I had never before known. … I had been given an unearned gift—the Lord’s gift of grace. … I didn’t deserve it—I had done nothing to merit it, but He gave it to me nonetheless.”

“Is it music-class day?” three-year-old Dallin asked, running into the kitchen for breakfast.
“It sure is!” Mommy said. She stooped to put Baby Breeana in her high chair as Dallin poured a bowl of cereal, all by himself. “The ladies will be happy to see you.”
“Today I want to sing ‘I’m Trying to Be like Jesus’* for them, Mommy. I think they will like that.”
Later, in the backseat of the car, to practice, Dallin sang for Baby Breeana. “‘I’m trying to be like Jesus.’” He paused. “Mommy, the ladies are like grandmas, aren’t they? I bet they miss their families.”
“I think you’re right, Dallin. That’s why they enjoy your visits every week. Look.” Mommy pointed out the window as she pulled into a parking space and turned off the car. “There’s Jaren and his mommy.”
“I see them. Hurry, Mommy! The ladies are waiting!”
As soon as they entered the building, Dallin and Jaren found the ladies. “Hi,” Dallin called, running up to a lady with gray hair and a purple sweatshirt.
“Why, hello, young man,” the lady said. “You are growing up so fast!”
Dallin reached out his hand, and the lady held it for a long time. Her hand was as soft as Baby Breeana’s, and she had bright pink fingernails. “I’m going to sing my favorite song for you today,” Dallin told her.
The lady slowly stood up. Holding on to her walker, she started toward the music room. Dallin walked next to her, even though he wished she would hurry. He knew the ladies needed to walk slowly.
When they reached the music room, Dallin waved to all the ladies already there. He ran to sit in the circle with Mommy. Many of his friends from nursery class were sitting in the circle, too. They sang a welcome song, and the ladies laughed and smiled. Then it was time for instruments—Dallin’s favorite time. He carefully chose a drum from the box.
“Hey, Dallin,” his friend Sydney said as she reached into the box. “Don’t forget to take instruments to the ladies.”
“OK.” Dallin grabbed a jar full of beans and skipped with it to the lady in the purple sweatshirt. The beans made crackling noises as he bounced up and down. “Here you go,” he told her. “You just have to shake it like this.”
The lady slowly reached for the instrument. “Thank you.”
Back in the circle, Dallin pounded on his drum to the music. The ladies smiled and nodded their heads with the beat. Dallin watched the mommy who was leading the song. Soon she would bring out the small singing platform, and it would be his turn to sing for the ladies all by himself.
“Hurrah! Good job everyone!” the mommy said. She carried the wood platform to the middle of the room and pointed a finger at Jaren. “Jaren, would you like to go first?”
Dallin wished he could be first, but he sat down and listened politely while Jaren sang. Everybody clapped.
“Now, Dallin, how about you?” the mommy asked. “Do you have a song to sing for us next?”
Dallin grinned and jumped to his feet. Climbing onto the platform, he turned so he could see all of the ladies. “I’m going to sing ‘I’m Trying to Be like Jesus,’” he announced. As he sang, he kept turning to look at each person. The lady in the purple sweatshirt waved to him, and the other ladies leaned forward and smiled.
I’m helping them be happy, Dallin thought as he finished the song and everybody clapped. That’s a good way to be like Jesus.

Eliza R. Snow, second General President of the Relief Society, offered a riveting answer. Because of Missouri’s infamous extermination order, issued at the onset of the grueling winter of 1838,7 she and other Saints were forced to flee the state that very winter. One evening, Eliza’s family spent the night in a small log cabin used by refugee Saints. Much of the chinking between the logs had been extracted and burned for firewood by those who preceded them, so there were holes between the logs large enough for a cat to crawl through. It was bitter cold, and their food was frozen solid.

That night some 80 people huddled inside that small cabin, only 20 feet square (6.1 meters square). Most sat or stood all night trying to keep warm. Outside, a group of men spent the night gathered around a roaring fire, with some singing hymns and others roasting frozen potatoes. Eliza recorded: “Not a complaint was heard—all were cheerful, and judging from appearances, strangers would have taken us to be pleasure excursionists rather than a band of gubernatorial exiles.”

Eliza’s report of that exhausting, bone-chilling evening was strikingly optimistic. She declared: “That was a very merry night. None but saints can be happy under every circumstance.”8

Prayer was a very important part of my life. As a child, I was taught to pray. I remember one time when I was riding out to the ranch with my father. As he drove, he started humming or singing, “‘Ere you left your room this morning, Did you think to pray?’”* Then he glanced at me and asked, “Son, did you pray this morning?”
“No.”
“Don’t you pray in the mornings?”
“I pray at night,” I replied.
At that moment, he took the time to explain to me the importance of praying in the morning and at night. From that time on, it became part of my life to pray both morning and night. In 2 Nephi 26:15 [2 Ne. 26:15], we are told that “the prayers of the faithful shall be heard.” We often experienced that scripture. I learned in my youth that as we were faithful and did our part, the Lord blessed us.

It’s too bad when true friendships are ruined. Consider this example: Two close friends had a lot of interests in common. Unfortunately one of their common interests was a boy. One friend got angry because the boy paid more attention to the other one. After that fight, they never had anything more to do with each other. Each one refused to make the first move to apologize, so they avoided each other all through their high school years.

Five years later, they met at a party. They started talking and discovered they still had many things in common. They became close friends again, and a few months later, one asked the other to be her maid of honor at her upcoming wedding. They were grateful to have rediscovered their friendship, but they were both unhappy that they wasted five years when they could have been enjoying each other’s company. Maybe you can help your friends discover that they really would still like to be friends (see James 3:16–18).

John Nelson, of Lodi, California, received the Scout of the Year award for his area at the National Eagle Scout Association annual dinner.
John was cited because of his Eagle project. The Lodi cemetery offices had burned, destroying the records of those interred in the mausoleum. John’s project was to record all the names, birth and death dates, and location on cards. Some of the work involved having Japanese characters translated. After the information was alphabetized, it was typed, microfilmed, and microfiched.
John is an honor student and has received special awards in chemistry. He has also lettered in band and track. He was first assistant in the priests quorum in the Lodi Third Ward, Lodi California Stake.

After church was over, it seemed like everybody in the ward wanted to hang around and talk. The adults, in particular, kept coming up and congratulating Kitty. But all she wanted was to get away as fast as she could.
Without waiting for her mother, she slipped out the back door of the chapel and took the roundabout way home, so she wouldn’t run into any members walking in her direction.
She tried to get upstairs to her room without having her father hear, but just as she put her foot on the first step, he came out of the little room with the Sunday newspaper in his hand. Her mom called the room the “den,” but Kitty and her dad called it his “hideaway,” pretending he would hide out from home teachers and the bishopric and other Church members. Actually, Kitty had thought more than once that he was pretty good about all the people who came and went on Church business, and he was super-great to the missionaries. All the more reason she had to get away from him now before she exploded.
“Hey, Kitten!” he called. “How did things go? Your mother told me you were made Queen Bee or something today.”
“Oh, daddy! It was Beehive class president, not ‘Queen Bee’! Can’t you ever get anything right! Besides, I don’t want to hear any more about it!”
In her room, she flounced on her bed and let the hot tears come. But not more than a dozen had fallen when she heard a familiar voice on the front porch.
“Key? Hey, Ke-ey! Ke-ey!”
She went to her window, and sure enough, there was Tami, pushing herself in the porch swing and yelling for her.
“Tami, I can’t play now. Do you understand? Not now.” But her cousin continued to swing and smile and call, her large hands holding firmly to the arms of the swing, her stocky legs driving the swing back and forth. Exasperated, Kitty stamped downstairs and flung open the front door.
“Tami, I can’t play now. Go home. Go on home, and leave me alone, won’t you? Won’t anybody leave me alone?” The tears coming fast now, Kitty ran down the porch steps and into the yard. Turning, through the blur she saw Tami’s puzzled face. She ought to go back, but all she wanted was to get away. Then she saw her father come out onto the porch and put his arm around Tami, talking softly to her and patting her on the shoulder as he led her down the front walk and headed her home. Kitty turned and ran for the barn.
It was a barn in looks, at least from the outside. From the inside, it was clearly not a barn, and never had been. Her mother had a large studio on one end, with wonderful skylights, and along the west wall was a little gallery of paintings she was not ready to part with yet. Her dad had a neat workshop, smelling of cedar shavings and varnish. And best of all, Kitty had the Loft. She always thought of it like that, with a capital L: the Loft. Her Loft. Nobody ever had a better private place, a place to play house when she was little, or to read marvelous books like A Wrinkle in Time, which she read in a single day once, not even coming down for lunch, and her mom let her. A place to write in her journal and share secrets with her best friend. A place to be far away from everybody else and at the same time, at home.
Today, though, her Loft didn’t seem to welcome her. She looked over at the old desk her dad had refinished for her. There was her journal, neglected for who knew how long.
And there was that old copy of Don Quixote that she had made a solemn vow she would one day read—in Spanish. Ha! She walked up to one wall and squinted at a framed photograph. Four very skinny, grinny little girls, wet hair straggling down their necks, stood beside a swimming pool, all four holding a small trophy. Under the photo, written in ink were the words The Tadpoles’ First Victory.
Double ha!
Somebody had come into the barn, making a lot of noise by way of announcing his presence. Then Kitty heard the noise of a broom handle knocking politely on the door of the Loft. Her dad wouldn’t even put a foot on the Loft ladder without an invitation.
“Kitten, can I come up?”
“Dad, I can’t! I can’t talk to you about this. I’m … I’m sorry. Wish I could.” And she did, too. She had always been able to explain things to him, just as Jenny was able to talk about anything to their mother. But this was something she couldn’t—
His voice interrupted her thoughts.
“Listen, Kitten? You listening up there?” He waited for an answer.
“Well, of course!”
“Well, now, I don’t want to be a Mr. Buttinski or anything. Just tell me one thing.” He paused.
“What?”
“Well, is this … you know … women’s business?”
Kitty couldn’t help but giggle a little.
“Well? Is it?”
“No, daddy, it’s not women’s business.”
“Then we can talk about it. May I please come up?”
“We can’t talk about it. You don’t understand!”
“So make me understand. May I please come up?”
She knew he would stand there politely asking until the moon rose if she didn’t respond, so she jerked the Loft door open and said, “All right! But I don’t know what good it will do.” She went over to the daybed and sat down.
“Neither do I, Kitten.” He sat down in the old rickety rocker, folded his hands over his stomach, and sighed.
Nobody said anything for a while. One of the best things about Kitty and her dad was their silences. She figured they had the best silences any two people ever had, and she’d made up her mind years ago that she’d only marry a man with whom she could have those special silences.
Finally he spoke.
“It’s about church, isn’t it?”
She hesitated. “Well, not exact—”
“It’s about church, isn’t it?”
“YES!”
“And you don’t want to tell me because you don’t want to say anything bad about your church to your heretical old man, right?”
“Daddy, nobody thinks you’re a heretic. I’ve told—”
“Right?” He looked straight at her.
“Yes.” He rocked some more and smiled a little.
“Kitty, I’ve been married to your mother for 16 years. I’ve been your father for 13, and Jenny’s for 11. Your Uncle Ken and I have been as close as brothers, and he’s been a bishop twice. Don’t you think I know what fine things your church does for people? And don’t you think I also know that since people aren’t perfect, there will always be problems?”
There was another silence, not such a comfortable one this time, because Kitty knew it was up to her to break it.
“I just can’t do it all!” Her voice was louder than she meant it to be. “Dad, listen to this. I’m 13, and I’m supposed to get good grades, and practice my cello so I can be in orchestra, and stay on the swim team, and spend time with Tami and help her get ready for the Special Olympics plus work in the garden, ’cause we’re all supposed to have gardens, and keep up my journal, ’cause we’re all supposed to have journals—and I love all of it, don’t get me wrong—and we’ve been told to learn foreign languages so I’ve started Spanish this year, and I’m supposed to go to all my meetings and help needy people and support all the ward activities and stay close to my family—and now they make me Beehive class president, which will mean more meetings—
“Oh, daddy, I want to do it all! I really do. It all makes sense, and I know it’s all right. But 13’s too young to be booked solid for life. Because it’s just going to get worse. High school will just mean more work, plus a social life, if my body ever catches up with the rest of me and I look like something besides a tadpole at 16. Then there’s college and work and marriage and a family—dad, I don’t see any end to it till I’m an old, old woman sitting in that rocker between temple sessions!” Kitty flopped onto the pillow.
“The better job you do, the bigger job they give you the next time, hum?” said her father.
Kitty muffled something through the pillow.
“And the hurrieder you go, the behinder you get?”
The pillow grunted again.
“And even though you want to do everything just right, you never seem to do anything quite the way you want it?”
Kitty turned her head and stared at her father.
Kitty’s father had said more than once that he was like Henry David Thoreau: he needed a “wide margin” to his life. He worked very hard at his job and at taking care of their house and yard. But beyond that he was not, as he said, a “joiner.” He was not involved in the hundred and one things she and her mother and Jenny were. So how did he know?
They sat for a long time, saying nothing. Finally, Kitty said, “Mom?”
“Of course. That’s why you really ought to ask her how to solve this problem. She could—”
“Oh but dad, that’s just IT! She does everything! Everybody’s always telling me what a marvel she is. ‘How does your mother do it? How does your mother do it?’” Kitty’s voice mimicked her questioners. “I can never begin to be as organized and as capable as she is. I don’t even want to try! They ask me all the time, but I don’t know. I don’t know how she does it!”
“Have you ever asked her?”
“Oh, she’d just say, ‘Do your best,’ or ‘Make a schedule’ or something. It’s easy for her.”
“If it’s easy for her, how do you think I know about all the thoughts that are in your mind, all those things I told you just a minute ago?”
“Well, tell me, then. Tell me how to do it.” Kitty sat up on the bed and folded her arms across her chest. “Mom does it all. Tell me how to do it all.”
“She does it all, hum? She does, hum?” Suddenly her dad jumped out of the rocker, clattered down the ladder from the Loft, and was heard rummaging around in the storage room between his workshop and the studio.
“Daddy? Daddy, what are you doing? What’s going on?”
“Just a minute. Know it’s here someplace …” came the muffled answer. More rummaging and opening and closing of trunk lids. Then he was bounding up the ladder again, with something in his hand.
“Come here, over by the light.” Kitty joined him by the window. “Do you remember this?”
He held out to her a piece of white cloth. When she took it in her hand, she saw it was a dress, a tiny frothy dress, all white, with many tucks and flounces; and across the yoke in front were red and blue marching figures. It was beautiful, and somehow, she knew it had been hers.
“You looked like an angel,” her father said softly. “Your hair was blonde then, and you were all dolled up in this dress and little white shoes and white socks with—I’m almost certain—red and blue stripes matching the whatsit on the dress. It was a Primary thing, Easter, I think, and you stood right in the front row and sang every song without missing a word—three years old and you didn’t miss a word—and me sitting on the back row blubbering when you sang that one about ‘I Am a Child of God.’ I was embarrassed like the dickens until I noticed that both of the men beside me were sniffing and honking too. Oh, your mother was so proud of you, and that dress! I guess she took a whole roll of film of you in that dress. Still has ’em someplace.”
Kitty looked more closely at the dress. Tiny stitches, many of them handmade.
“Mother made this?” Her father nodded. “But she doesn’t sew.”
“She doesn’t now. Obviously, she couldn’t do it all. She loved sewing for you, Kitten. And for herself, and Jenny, and the house. But finally she said it took too much time from other things.” He took the dress from her and began folding it very carefully.
“But she didn’t give up painting.”
“Of course not. Didn’t give up breathing, either. Your mom’s like—well—like a well that people come to, to be refreshed. But she has to be filled herself, or she’ll have nothing to give. Her painting is one place she gets renewed. Those scriptures of yours are another place too. And have you ever heard your mother make an appointment for Saturday night?”
Kitty thought a long minute, then shook her head.
“Nope, because that’s our time, hers and mine. We go out, to a movie, or to dinner, or for a drive, or a walk, or sometimes she drags me to an art gallery and sometimes I drag her to a hockey game. But it’s strictly our time.”
“You think it’s okay for me to have some ‘me’ time, even though I’m not married?”
“Absolutely. You ought to be able to take off, oh, say after noon on Saturday, and not answer to anybody. Lie up here and watch the dust motes dance in the sunlight. Take your bike out in the rain. Spend the whole long afternoon getting acquainted with just what it feels like to be 13, so’s you’ll never forget. To kind of help you along with that, I hereby relieve you of your Saturday garden chores.”
“I guess mom gave up a lot of stuff besides sewing, didn’t she? I just never thought about it before.” Kitty looked again at the red and blue figures marching across the white dress.
“Sure. But she kept a lot, too. That’s what I’ve been saying. She never considered giving up painting, and you mustn’t ever consider giving up your music.”
How did he know, Kitty wondered. How did he know that of swimming and chorus and reading and all the other things, her cello was the one set apart, different, in its own special world?
“Look, Kitten, all your life you’ll be called on to do things because you have the brains and the talents and the unselfishness to do them. But you’ll have to use some of those brains to figure out how to give to others and still have something left for yourself. Now take Tami, for instance. You’ve been great with her. You’ve done things for her that her own parents didn’t seem able to do. But she takes a lot of your time. Still, she is your cousin, and she does need someone to love her and work with her, so she can be every bit as much as she possibly can be, whatever that is. Now what does that brain say about a solution to that?”
Kitty got up and walked over to the window. Down the street, she could see Tami’s house. She imagined Tami helping her mother set the table, and remembered how proud she’d been when, after hours of Kitty’s help, she’d managed to do it perfectly by herself. She didn’t want to desert Tami.
“Jenny!” she suddenly said. “Jenny’s old enough now, and she’s good with Tami. In fact, it would be good for her to get her nose out of that TV and start working with Tami. I could coach her in the things she’d need to know—”
“Sure you could,” her dad said. “She’s ready for that job now, just like you’re ready to take on a different leadership job.”
“The Beehive class?”
“Yep. That’s a totally different challenge—a whole bunch of girls your own age, instead of one retarded cousin. But you’ll handle it. Kitty, I really think you ought to talk with your mom. She can tell you a dozen hints about juggling these things. But never think it’s easy. It’s not, not for her, not for you. Some things you give up, some you keep, some you compromise. And sometimes you move from one thing to another because you’ve learned what you needed to learn, or given what was most important for you to give, like with Tami.”
Suddenly, from the house, Kitty heard her mom’s voice.
“Carlyle? Kitty? Where are you two? Dinner’s ready!”
“Come on, Kitten. Let’s not keep her waiting.”
“Sure thing, dad. And then after dinner, I’ve got to have a long talk with that woman. Oh, but wait—” She ran over to the window seat and picked up the neatly folded little white dress.
“I think I’ll just hang on to this for a while,” and she clambered down the stairs after her father, whistling softly “I Am a Child of God.”

Roger had lost his construction business a few years earlier and was working as a taxi driver in Antananarivo, Madagascar.
From a temporal perspective, Roger credits Heavenly Father with helping him rebuild his business. After two years of driving a taxi and doing whatever he could to provide for his family, he started receiving construction contracts. “I believe that God always blesses me when I decide to follow Him,” he said.

Fortunately there are still those who observe such principles of personal rectitude. Recently we rode a train from Osaka to Nagoya, Japan. At the station were friends to greet us, and in the excitement my wife left her purse on the train. We called the Tokyo station to report it. When the train arrived at its destination some three hours later, the railroad telephoned to say the purse was there. We were not returning via Tokyo, and more than a month passed before it was delivered to us in Salt Lake City. Everything left in the purse was there when it was returned.

My beloved brothers and sisters, for several years and with the deepest feelings I have thought about what I would like to talk to you about this morning. The prophet Mormon tells us that “by the power of [the Lord’s] word did they cause prisons to tumble” (Morm. 8:24). In recent weeks, I have reread the stories of Jean Valjean in Victor Hugo’s brilliant novel Les Miserables and of Bob Merrick in the novel Magnificent Obsession by Lloyd C. Douglas. These two stories, though widely different in time, circumstances, and affluence, have touched my heart in many ways.
I have agonized as I have thought about the ordeal of Jean Valjean—the nineteen years in prison and the things done to him for the small transgression of stealing a loaf of bread to feed a starving family. He suffered so many indignities, even after he was finally released from the physical prison.
Some of the same feelings flood my mind as I reflect upon the self-inflicted sufferings of Bob Merrick. The life of a prominent surgeon was lost and the sight of another because of Bob Merrick’s wayward activities, selfishness, ego, and disdain for others. He suffered in a prison of his own making.
Yes, I realize these masterfully crafted episodes are fictional, but they cause me to think about the various types of prisons Satan leads us into building for ourselves and others, or that others build for us.
Haven’t we all been delivered from various forms of captivity? How did you feel when the doors were opened to your personal prison? How was it to feel free? How wonderful it is to be liberated from any kind of a prison.
I remember how I felt forty-one years ago when I was taken from a train in Europe at 2:00 a.m. by two soldiers of a hostile nation and held against my will. I was verbally and physically abused. I felt I would never see my family or my country again. I assure you that while I was held captive, the blood coursed through my veins like adrenaline. Though the captivity lasted less than a day, it seemed like an eternity. And when I was put on another train and sent back to safety, my gratitude to the Lord knew no bounds. I was free! As I talked to the train conductor, I learned that hundreds had not been so lucky.
I then was led to think of Him who really delivers us from various types of prisons into forgiveness, a newness of life, of spirit, of change, and of opportunity, and how the souls of men find such relief, fulfillment, and safety when this occurs. I thought of the Son of God and His greatest freewill offering to each of us, given at the expense of His own life and under excruciating pain. I thought of how our Father in Heaven loves each one of us. And though we sometimes walk into prisons of our own making, He is there with keys to unlock the doors that bind us. I thought of those who help along the way, who share in turning those keys which deliver others, and who care so deeply sometimes that they rebuild the trust of others—like the two men of God in the novels helped to free Jean Valjean and Bob Merrick from their prisons into magnificent new freedoms promised by the Lord.
As difficult as a physical captivity or prison is, there are other captivities or prisons even more devastating. They are very subtle and take various forms in life, like (1) taking advantage of another; (2) bearing false witness to get gain; (3) knowing things to be true and not defending them; (4) stealing the morality of another; (5) destroying the innocence of a little child; (6) being captive to alcohol or drugs; or (7) financially digging a pit for another, causing hardship and destroying his ability to take care of his needs and so on. There are many prisons which come from our sins or the sins of others “according to the captivity and power of the devil” (2 Ne. 2:27), who leads us away.
Let me take an example to illustrate the point of these prisons. The prophet Job counseled us not to “dig a pit for your friend” (Job 6:27). I understand that could mean a business associate, a neighbor, a member of the Church. How could this happen?
Several years ago, a great young man had a thriving business. He had worked long, hard hours for many years to develop the skills, reputation, and expertise necessary to build his business and provide for the needs of his young family. He loved his work, and every morning he anxiously began each new project with creativity and opportunity. His was a great life, filled with much hope and many projects. Then one major project was completed and finalized. Rather large payments were anticipated, but a shrewd businessman found that oral approvals, given to my friend to make many necessary alterations in the project, could easily be broken and not honored. After all, there was no written record of the changes requested. It was just “good business” to get it as cheap as possible, even after commitments were made. And so verbal commitments were not honored. The money due, which was considerable, was not paid.
At this point we have several prisons that are in place: the prison of deceit of the “shrewd” businessman, and the prison of the deceived, who could not now honor his own commitments. To this day the one deceived, through further industry and much hardship, is still trying to get out of the prison created by another. And he has lost confidence in others, and he and his family have lost opportunities and his business because of another.
Did not the Savior teach through the prophet Moses, “If a man shall cause a field or vineyard to be eaten, and shall put in his beast, and shall feed in another man’s field; of the best of his own field, and of the best of his own vineyard, shall he make restitution”? (Ex. 22:5).
These types of prisons often cause the offended to lose faith, hope, and even the ability to care for their own, as was the case with my young friend. But these prisons should not happen. They often cause years of anguish. They cause those involved to wonder about justice and mercy. Sometimes these people find it impossible to resolve their own personal affairs honorably.
The lessons taught by the Savior differ widely from these actions. For He taught, in effect, Do unto others as ye would have them do unto you (see Matt. 7:12; 3 Ne. 14:12). He taught, “Behold it is my will that you shall pay all your debts” (D&C 104:78). Yes, even if it takes years, pay your debts.
No Christian should ever be a challenge to another Christian. Many widows, single mothers, and older couples are victimized by those who take advantage of them, who do not honor their commitments and then put them into a type of prison. Those affected find themselves pleading for someone to open their prison doors, often while babies cry for bare necessities.
When we seek to follow Christ, we take the oath of a Christian as a member of this Church; we covenant to never put another in any sort of prison, but rather to try to liberate those who are there. We become like one man who said that when he joined this Church it changed the way he thought, the way he talked, the way he believed, the way he dressed, the way he worked and honored his employer, the things he read, the movies he saw, the way he conducted his financial affairs in absolute honesty with everyone, and the way he served others. He truly believed in the liberating power of the gospel of Jesus Christ and became free because of it. As is stated in the book of John, “If the Son therefore shall make you free, ye shall be free indeed” (John 8:36).
Years ago an acquaintance of mine was captive for over twenty years to a serious alcohol problem, which bound him every day. He would leave work, buy his alcohol, drive into the countryside, and drink until he could barely find his way home. He truly was under the captive spirit of the devil and lived in hell. A faithful home teacher loved this brother, saw him often, taught him to pray for help, and prayed for him often. One day while he was driving his pickup truck into the countryside to begin his daily alcohol ritual, he felt a powerful influence to stop his truck, walk out into a field, fall to his knees, and plead for help from his Father in Heaven. Later, he tearfully testified that as he arose from his knees, the desire to drink alcohol had completely left him. He had been delivered from a twenty-year prison. God heard his prayer, felt the desire of his heart, and opened the prison doors that bound him.
Beloved friends, it is Jesus who has unlocked and will unlock the doors of our personal prisons. It is a glorious promise to all who are captive, for whatever reasons, upon the condition of repentance.
Certainly, a Latter-day Saint will demonstrate the freedom he has received by walking in all morality and all honesty, as taught by the Lord. For his word is his bond—sacred and honored. His life becomes the testament that it is all true—every principle and every word that proceeds from the mouth of the Savior and His prophets. By living these cardinal principles, we are truly free and we become the witnesses of His word.
One of the beautiful, profound statements of the man of God to Jean Valjean was: “My brother, you belong no more to evil, but to good. It is your soul I am buying for you, and I give it to God” (Victor Hugo, Les Miserables, volume 1, book 2, chapter 12). No more prisons for others, if you will, because of my actions.
Jesus came that man might have life and have it more abundantly. He walked the path, taught the way, opened the doors to truly liberate mankind, and said, “And ye shall know the truth, and the truth shall make you free” (John 8:32). The writer, Mr. Douglas, expressed it beautifully when he said to Bob Merrick, “When you find THE WAY, you will be bound—it will become an obsession—a magnificent obsession.”
We know it works, for listen to the words which record what happened to the Saints who truly followed the Savior for two hundred years following His appearance in America:
“And as many as did come unto them, and did truly repent of their sins, were baptized in the name of Jesus; and they did also receive the Holy Ghost.
“… And there were no contentions and disputations among them, and every man did deal justly one with another.
“And they had all things common among them; therefore there were not rich and poor, bond and free, but they were all made free. …
“And surely there could not be a happier people among all the people who had been created by the hand of God” (4 Ne. 1:1–3, 16; emphasis added).
Yes, “by the power of his word did they cause prisons to tumble” (Morm. 8:24). May we live our lives so we will all be free with no prisons for ourselves or others, only a magnificent obsession filled with freedoms and blessings ahead, in the name of Jesus Christ, amen.